A city of neighborhoods

I try to avoid the Gold Coast like an unwanted pregnancy, but this morning I had to meet a friend there to get an important package. (Email me if you really want to know what it is. And I promise not give everyone a different story.) So I take the 60 from my modest neighborhood and get off in the Loop to take a nice, long walk up to Division and Dearborn where the dropoff was scheduled. It's one of those rare, pristine days in Chicago (face it, we ain't known for glorious weather) and once you get past brutal hotspots like Excalibur, the area is quite beautiful. Almost like being in a different city. At Division and Dearborn there was this lovely farmer's market. For some reason it pissed me off. I called my friend to let her know I arrived. "I'm here. There's a farmer's market? Why do you rich people get all the good stuff?" I said, only 1/3 kidding. The closest thing I have to a farmer's market is a bunch of Mexicans selling produce out of the back of a truck (lovely stuff by the way), or Maxwell Street where I can buy tube socks or stolen electronics. "Oh yeah, I forgot that was going on today," She said. "Come on, we're not rich." They're not. But I needed to lash out. Three pretty young girls were playing chamber music near me. Couples with their imported Chinese daughters milled about. "They're playing violins! This is fucking disgusting." Oh, o.k. It was nice. And yeah, I'll probably go back.